Emily, Gone

by Bette Lee Crosby

  With Hope’s hand held tightly in hers, she turned and started toward the building.

  “Always and forever,” she whispered into the small ear.

  Once they were in the classroom, Rachel introduced Hope to her teacher. “You’re going to have a wonderful time with Ms. Abernathy,” she said. Then she bent and whispered, “School is nothing to be frightened of; being here with Ms. Abernathy is as safe as being at home with Grandma and Bruno.”

  There was no nod, just a wide-eyed look of fear.

  “While you’re in here having fun with the other kids, Bruno and I will be waiting just outside, and when school is over we’ll all go for ice cream. Okay?”

  Still no response, but the tears had stopped.

  By the time Rachel slipped out the door, Hope was sitting in a chair next to her friend Suzie. For a long while Rachel stood outside the classroom door, peeking through the glass window, then pulling away before Hope caught sight of her, all the time counting the minutes until her children would be back in her arms. When at long last Hope began leafing through the pages of a picture book, Rachel left.

  As she and Bruno walked back to the house, she again thought of Emily. It was a thought that had been in the back of her mind all morning. Retracing her steps along Mulberry Street, she wondered how Emily’s first day of school had been. She and Henry were such look-alikes; had she also been eager and filled with excitement? Or was she like Hope, hesitant and afraid to let go of what was familiar?

  The thought that Emily might have been frightened brought tears to Rachel’s eyes, and she again wondered if someone had been there for her child. Did someone walk her to school and stand at the door of her classroom? Did they wipe away the tears, give her a reassuring hug, and promise to be waiting? Did they love Emmy the way she loved the twins?

  Rachel’s steps slowed, and as she turned onto Pecan Street she whispered a prayer that God had granted Emily someone to love her. “If it can’t be me,” she said tearfully, “then let it be a good mother with a loving heart.”

  Once the twins moved on to first grade, they left the house early in the morning and didn’t return until after three o’clock. That same year Mama Dixon’s crochet group began piecing together a friendship quilt, which they believed would take first prize at the county fair.

  It was a project they’d planned some nine years earlier, but year after year something happened and one of the five ladies would suggest they set the quilt aside until the following year. Husbands died, nieces got married, grandbabies came along, and after Emmy disappeared, Helen almost dropped out of the group, claiming it was more important that she spend time with Rachel.

  “We’ll not hear of you quitting,” Sadie said. “We’ll simply postpone the project until next year.”

  Of course, one year turned into three, and then after the twins came along Rachel needed an extra pair of hands, and Mama Dixon didn’t get back to the group until the summer after the babies had turned two. By then the ladies were content to simply crochet granny squares as they sat around the table sipping sweet tea and snacking on pimento cheese sandwiches.

  Not until the early months of 1982 did they get back to working on the quilt, but once they did, they went at it wholeheartedly. The plan had always been to construct the quilt solely with fabrics that represented the most meaningful elements of their lives. Sadie warned against anyone showing up with store-bought fabric.

  “We want this to be an authentic representation of who we are and the lives we’ve lived,” she said.

  That evening Mama Dixon told Rachel about the project and asked for some of the clothes the twins had outgrown. “We’re doing a mix of fabrics, so it can be most anything,” she said. “Playclothes, shirts, dresses, any of that. And if you wouldn’t mind, I’d love to have a piece of that flowered apron you used to wear—oh, and a patch or two from one of George’s work shirts.” She gave a sly grin and added, “I want to make sure my whole family is represented.”

  “It won’t be the whole family if you don’t include something from George’s daddy.”

  “I’ve already got that covered. I used the robe he—”

  Rachel’s eyes widened. “The green plaid robe? The one hanging on the inside of your bedroom door?”

  Looking a bit embarrassed, Helen nodded. “I know I said I’d never in a million years part with it, but now I’ve thought better. Hanging on that hook, it was just a sad reminder of what a wonderful man he was, but by using his robe in our quilt, Henry can be part of something bigger, something that will last a long time and bring people enjoyment.”

  “Oh . . .” Rachel whooshed a long, drawn-out sigh. “That’s such a beautiful thought.”

  “Yes, I only wish I would have kept something of Tommy’s, but I didn’t.”

  With a look of melancholy shadowing her eyes, Rachel said, “I’d also like Emmy to be part of your quilt.”

  It was Mama Dixon’s turn to look surprised. “I thought you gave away everything.”

  “Not everything. I still have her pink dress. I’m not sure why I kept it, but . . .”

  “You probably kept it for the same reason I kept Henry’s robe: because it brought some small measure of comfort.”

  That evening after the twins had gone to bed and George had settled down to watch Hill Street Blues, Rachel pulled the tiny dress from the bottom drawer and held it to her face. It was unlikely that after so many years Emily’s scent remained in the fabric, but for a brief moment she could imagine that it did.

  The next morning, as soon as George was gone from the house, Rachel took her sewing basket into the bedroom and closed the door. It was almost eleven when she finally emerged and handed Mama Dixon a swatch of pink gingham. “Now the whole family will be part of the quilt,” she said.

  Helen looked down at the square of fabric, and there along the edge was Tommy’s name, embroidered in delicate stitches of blue satin. She stood looking at it for a moment, then grew misty-eyed. “How can I ever thank you . . . ?”

  Both women knew no thanks was needed.

  At the next meeting, all five women brought shopping bags filled with remnants of things that were outgrown or outdated. Sadie offered lace appliqués that at one time were part of her divorced cousin’s trousseau, and Josephine Jones brought the back of her late husband’s bowling shirt along with scraps of a sundress she’d been photographed in some fifty years ago. Adele Scott had remnants of the naval trousers her brother wore in World War II.

  “These have historic significance,” Adele said as she laid the white squares on the table.

  Helen waited until the other ladies had their swatches on the table, then she pulled out the stack she’d put together. One by one she went through them, describing how the colorful squares were taken from the twins’ playclothes, the green plaid from Henry’s bathrobe, the flowered print from Rachel’s old apron, and the blue chambray from George’s shirt. She saved the pink gingham square for last, and when she told how Rachel had given up her last keepsake of Emily and embroidered Tommy’s name along the edge of the square, the ladies voted unanimously to have that piece be the center of the quilt.

  That year the women renamed their group; they called it the Hesterville Crochet and Quilting Club. Sadie told the butcher’s wife about what they were doing, and she told the pastor’s wife. Before the month was out, the Primrose Post called, asking if they could do a story on the women and their quilting project.

  When the story appeared on page nine of the Post along with a photo of all five women standing alongside a table covered with swatches of fabric, the project took on an even greater level of momentum. Whereas previously they’d had just one meeting a week, they now upped it to three or four.

  Seeing Mama Dixon involved in such a wonderful project gave Rachel a feeling of happiness, but she now found herself with long hours of nothing to do. Before noon, she’d have the housework done and a dinner casserole ready to pop in the oven.

  That November, on a morning wh
en there was a chill in the air and a scattering of leaves across the lawns, Rachel wrapped a wool scarf around her neck and started out for a walk. She turned left at the corner of Pecan Street, then continued down Mulberry, making a right three blocks later and then a quick left. When she came to a stop she was standing in front of the library. It was a Tuesday not a Thursday, so there was no reading group scheduled, but still she went in.

  Karen Molinari was behind the checkout desk going through a stack of books that had yet to be filed. She gave a quick wave and an apologetic smile.

  “Sorry I can’t stop to chat,” she said. “I’ve got a million things to do today.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  In the middle of marking index cards for the shipment of new releases, Karen looked up. “Help? You mean on Thursday?”

  “No, now.” Rachel started to say something about having no place to go and nothing to do, but it sounded lame so she switched to, “I’m free until three o’clock when the kids come home from school.”

  A smile brightened Karen’s face. “Well if you really don’t mind . . .” She pushed the stack of books across the desk. “These are fiction. They go alphabetically by author name. The A’s start in the third stack across from the reading room.”

  For the remainder of that year and well into 1983, it was as if the bluebird of happiness had flown over the Dixon house and nested on the roof. It seemed as if one good thing followed another.

  George’s business flourished, the twins did well in school, Mama Dixon’s group was moving ahead with their quilt, and Rachel was kept busy with her volunteer work at the library. She was there five days a week, but not on March 10. That was the day she set aside to spend with thoughts of Emily.

  Over the years she’d imagined Emily learning to walk, losing her baby teeth, and growing from a toddler into a willowy little girl. That year Rachel saw her as a shy twelve-year-old, perhaps with braces and her hair pulled back in a ponytail. In time that image would change, but one thing never changed: the prayer Rachel said before the day ended.

  “Please, God,” she’d ask, “give her a family who loves her as much as George and I do.”

  After almost two years of working on the quilt they’d renamed Patches of Heritage, the Hesterville Crochet and Quilting Club entered it in the craft division of the Primrose County Fair, and it won the blue ribbon. The Post ran a second story on the ladies and their project, only this time it was featured on the front page of the Sunday edition. The photograph, taken at the fair, showed nine ladies clustered around the hanging quilt with Mama Dixon proudly holding up the blue ribbon.

  That summer the hardware store’s revenues exceeded George’s predictions by a whopping 23 percent. Brad Grover became a full-time employee, and George got to take some long-awaited time off. He suggested a second honeymoon for just Rachel and him, and her eyebrows went up.

  “And leave the kids alone?” she exclaimed.

  “Not alone,” George said. “With Mama and Bruno.”

  “But for five days?”

  “They’ll be fine. Mama loves those kids as much as we do, and Bruno never leaves Hope’s side. There’s nothing to worry about. What could possibly happen?”

  Rachel didn’t have an answer, but the look of apprehension was still stuck to her face. It took a fair bit of convincing and Mama Dixon’s promise that she’d keep an eye on them every minute of every day, but eventually Rachel did agree, and George began planning the trip.

  Two weeks after Labor Day, they drove to Savannah and checked in at a hotel overlooking the river. As soon as they were settled in the room, Rachel suggested they call home and check on the twins.

  George glanced at his watch. “We’ve been gone less than five hours!”

  “I know, but I’ll feel more relaxed once I’m certain everything is okay.”

  After calling home, they went to dinner at the famed Pirates’ House, then strolled the crooked streets along the water, walking hand in hand as they did in the days after they were first married. Afterward they stopped at an open-air café and sipped a sherry as the sky grew dark and the stars twinkled above them.

  “It’s strange, spending the night away from the kids,” Rachel said. “As much as I’m enjoying this, I can’t help but wish I could peek in on them to make sure they’re okay.”

  George laughed. “I think you can relax, Rachel. With Mama and Bruno watching them, the twins are as safe as they’d be with us there.”

  “All the same, I’d feel better if we call once or twice a day, just to check.”

  “If we call twice a day, do you promise not to worry?”

  Rachel gave a sheepish smile. “I’ll promise to try not to worry; how’s that?”

  “I guess that’s as good as I’m going to get.” He playfully lifted her hand to his lips and planted a kiss on her palm.

  In the days that followed they called twice a day, every day, but they also took carriage rides through the city, visited mansions with commemorative plaques that told how the building had stood since before the Civil War, and ate at taverns where Confederate soldiers had sat at the same tables. Although they were never without something to say to one another, the conversation was often peppered with thoughts of the twins or George’s mama. Not necessarily worries but random thoughts of how Hope was going to love the musical jewelry box they bought for her, and Henry, likewise, the Dale Murphy T-shirt.

  At night they made love passionately, without thought of yesterday or tomorrow. Although so many years had gone by, it was as if they were newlyweds, finding and taking pleasure from one another. When the last morning came, they remained in bed long after the sun was in the sky and then ordered breakfast brought to the room.

  “This is so decadent,” Rachel said, laughing. “I feel shameful being here and enjoying all this while the twins are at home with your mama.”

  “The only thing shameful is that we haven’t done it more often.”

  George broke off a piece of his croissant, spread it with raspberry jam, and held it to her mouth. She playfully licked the jam, then bit off a piece of the buttery croissant. He laughed, then covered her mouth with a kiss and eased her back onto the bed. For the first time in more years than she could remember, they made love for a second time that morning.

  On the drive home George reached across the seat, took Rachel’s hand in his, and squeezed it lovingly.

  “We’ll do this again next year,” he promised.

  PECAN STREET TRAGEDY

  Hesterville, 1985

  In 1984 the weather remained balmy throughout most of December, but in January a cold front came down from Canada and dropped an icy chill over everything. People left their houses in the morning wearing lightweight sweaters and returned home shivering.

  Before the month ended, every one of the women in Mama Dixon’s quilt club had come down with some sort of cold or virus, and Helen herself was starting to sound nasal.

  On Friday afternoon when Rachel returned from the library, Hope was at the kitchen table doing homework and Henry was watching television in the living room, but Mama Dixon was nowhere to be seen.

  “Where’s Grandma?” she asked.

  Hope shrugged. “Taking a nap, I think.”

  Helen napping in the middle of the day was rather unusual, so Rachel went to check. She rapped on the door twice, and when there was no answer she opened it and walked in. Mama Dixon was buried under a pile of wool throws and comforters.

  “Are you okay?” Rachel asked and touched her hand to Mama Dixon’s forehead. “Good grief! You’re burning up!”

  “I’m okay,” Mama Dixon mumbled and pushed herself to a sitting position. “I just needed a nap.”

  Rachel started peeling back the blankets. “You need more than a nap! I’m going to call Dr. Levine and get you over there right away.”

  “I don’t need a doctor. It’s just a touch of the bug Adele had. I’ll be fine in a day or so . . .”

  Her words trailed
off because by then Rachel was headed for the kitchen to grab the thermometer and call Dr. Levine’s office. Moments later she was back with the phone held to her ear as she popped the thermometer into Mama Dixon’s mouth.

  “You have reached the office of Dr. Levine,” the recording said. “The office is currently closed. Our office hours are Monday through Friday, nine a.m. through five p.m. If this is an emergency, you may contact Dr. Levine’s answering service, and they will locate him for you.” The voice rattled off a phone number without allowing time to fetch a pencil. “If your situation is such that it requires immediate attention, we suggest you go directly to the hospital.”

  Rachel stood there for a moment, wondering if this was or wasn’t a true emergency.

  Almost as if she’d read Rachel’s mind, Mama Dixon said, “Don’t worry. I’ve got the same flu Adele had. I’ll be over it in a week or so.”

  “Well, I am worried. I’m thinking maybe I’d best take you over to the emergency room and let a doctor check—”

  “I’m not going to the hospital. I’ll make an appointment with Dr. Levine and let him give me something.”

  “He won’t be back in the office until Monday. I don’t think you should wait that long.”

  With a flick of her fingers, Mama Dixon waved Rachel off.

  “I’ll be fine,” she said, “if you just scoot out of here and let me get some rest.”

  That Saturday Mama Dixon didn’t get out of bed. Rachel carried one glass of juice after another to the room for her, but they just sat on the nightstand with the pulp falling to the bottom of the glass.

  “I’m not thirsty,” Mama Dixon complained, “just tired.”